It can be tempting with Chekhov’s final play to lean too heavily into the sorrow of endings, to foreground the tragedy of a world disappearing and overlook the wit, absurdity and humanity that sit alongside it. Ian Rickson’s new production of The Cherry Orchard tips the balance too far in the other direction, allowing the comedy to overtake its deeper, more meaningful themes and leaving the audience struggling to appreciate the full weight of the tragedy.
Returning to her childhood estate after years abroad, Lyubov Ranevskaya faces a future she would rather avoid. The family home is drowning in debt, the beloved orchard, which symbolises more than just home, is under threat, and the social order that once sustained her world has shifted rapidly. Around her, family and friends negotiate changing fortunes and new ambitions while everything is out of her control.
Conor McPherson’s adaptation feels refreshing at first. Remaining broadly faithful to Chekhov’s themes, the language has a naturalism that makes the characters feel startlingly contemporary, even if the costumes and surroundings do not. Conversations overlap with familiar rhythms and the play’s enduring concerns about class, nostalgia and progress never feel trapped in a period piece.
Leading the cast is Kristin Scott Thomas, delivering a detailed character study of Ranevskaya. She leans away from the character’s warmth and instead focuses on her frustrating inability to confront reality head-on. She retains a natural charm, drawing others in even as the walls begin to close around her. Scott Thomas understands that Ranevskaya’s tragedy lies not in ignorance but in deliberate avoidance.
Opposite her, Stephen Mangan offers an unusually subservient Lopakhin. Rather than a man defined solely by ambition, Mangan presents someone caught between affection and opportunity, between gratitude for the past and excitement for the future. It is a thoughtful interpretation but, perhaps because of the production’s broader comic emphasis, he too often feels like a comedy foil rather than a serious dramatic presence.
This large ensemble cast is uneven and often lacking in chemistry, too often reciting the lines rather than inhabiting them, leaving many scenes feeling flat and lifeless. Some exceptions come in the form of Peter Wight, who finds plenty of humour in Gaev’s eccentricities without losing sight of his underlying sadness, and Karl Johnson’s Firs becomes an increasingly poignant reminder of the world being left behind, his presence lingering long after he exits the stage.
Chloe Lamford’s set reflects a society in transition, while Bruno Poet’s lighting reinforces the production’s atmosphere of fading grandeur. The design is simple enough to never overwhelm the drama, though it runs the risk of leaving the production feeling visually sparse.
The major criticism is that Rickson’s emphasis on comedy shadows the emotional impact of the play’s darkest moments. The humour is often unnecessarily slapstick or farcical. At one point, as characters dashed in and out of an abundance of doors, I was reminded of Noises Off, not a play known for its exploration of grief and loss.
Maybe this Cherry Orchard wants to show that life rarely announces its endings with grand tragedy. More often, people laugh, reminisce and carry on while the ground shifts beneath them. Unfortunately, in pursuing that idea so enthusiastically, this production loses sight of the heartbreak that has kept Chekhov’s masterpiece resonating for more than a century.
Listings and ticket information can be found here
